Kickback and Other Stories

by Peter Sellers

  Mr. Jenkins was a portly, balding Englishman who might have had a crush on Rebecca. He visited the store more often than necessary and his face took on a blissful, moon-eyed expression when he talked with her. When I met him I assumed he was in his early fifties and was surprised to find that he was no more than thirty-two. With his girth and poor complexion he looked like a poster boy for premature death. Rebecca never showed him anything other than a supreme lack of interest. Though, if she did not lust after him, she may have desired his job.

  One day, about a week after the firing, Jenkins was in Rebecca’s office at the back of the store when I went in to the adjacent shipping area to get some paper bags. Gunther was downstairs, probably trying not to frighten mothers in the children’s department.

  The door to the manager’s office was open, perhaps because they knew that Gunther was in the basement. I can’t recall the conversation word for word but the upshot was that several hundred dollars worth of Christmas cards and giftwrap had gone missing the year before. It had been ordered and paid for but there was no record of it either being sold or returned to the supplier for credit. The discrepancy came to light when this past year’s Christmas order was processed. Clearly, this was Mrs. Winters’ responsibility. She had obviously covered up the oversight, costing the store hundreds of dollars in what amounted to theft, and she had to be let go.

  As soon as I felt I had as much information as I needed, I took the bags up to the cash desks and began straightening shelves as far as possible from the office. I was surprised. Mrs. Winters seemed so organized and on top of every tiny detail. I knew this through observation and also reports from Alex, who wound up on her bad side more than once for such crimes as overlooking an empty space in the greeting card display. That she had neglected to return Christmas material from a year before was an unexpected discovery.

  My relationship with Rebecca was challenging. There were days when I would do things that made perfect sense to me but that she clearly did not appreciate. A woman came in one morning looking for our bestseller list, which the company produced every week based on sales at all their stores the week before. We were sent these lists on posters that we hung from the ceiling.

  “Where,” the woman asked me, “is your bestseller list?”

  “Why?” I replied. “Do you want to know what to avoid?” My hope was that she would move towards more lasting and profound books.

  The woman clearly lacked a sense of irony and left the store.

  Rebecca overheard and told me never to do that again. She seemed irritated.

  On other days, however, I conducted myself in ways that should have earned me more than my share of goodwill. One morning we arrived at the store and were told by Marlene, the assistant manager, that someone had broken into the company warehouse the night before and had made off with a large number of books.

  What kind of incompetent thief steals books? I wondered. We had our problems with theft from the store, as all retailers do, someone taking a paperback here and there. I always assumed that the books were taken for personal use or lifted by people who simply liked to steal things.

  Books in volume are another story, being heavy and hard to convert to cash. We were told to watch out for suspicious attempts to return books for refunds. What the higher-ups reckoned was that the thieves would bring the books back to various stores, exchange them for Gift Certificates, which was all they’d be able to do without receipts. They’d buy books with the Gift Certificates and then return those books to yet another store, now having receipts in hand, and get cash back. When this process was explained to me I wondered again what numbskull would think this was a good way to make money, and what equally warped soul at Head Office would put this byzantine notion forward. And then, of course, it all played out.

  I was at the information desk a day or two later when a guy in his teens came up to the counter holding a large book about the history of medicine that we sold for ninety-five dollars. It seemed unlikely that this kid, who had a downtown, street corner look about him, could possibly have it in his possession by any legitimate means.

  He held the book up to show me that it had one of the corporate price stickers that were applied at the warehouse before books were shipped to the various stores. “I’d like to return this,” he said.

  “Hang on for a second,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I went to report the situation.

  I kept my visit to Rebecca’s office as brief as possible, knowing that if I wasn’t quick it would look bad to the thief. I gave her a rundown and went back to the counter, as instructed, to stall for more time. It was already too late. The guy was halfway to the front door, the book tucked under his arm.

  “Hold on,” I called after him, causing a few customers to turn their heads. He neither waited nor looked back but started to run. By the time he reached the front door, I was running after him.

  Alex was working on cash as I ran past and the thought occurred to me that perhaps he would sense that something out of the ordinary was going on and join in the chase. That did not happen. He just watched wide-eyed as the small, fast moving parade went by.

  All of this happened so quickly that it didn’t cross my mind to question the wisdom of what I was doing until it was too late to quit. All I knew was that this guy was a thief and, worse, that he took me for an idiot. We ran down the street past startled pedestrians and around the corner, through a passageway between office buildings and into the parking lot behind the store. He was pulling away from me when, just as he reached the cross street at the north end of the parking lot, he slipped and fell. This was not good. By that point I had decided that what I was doing was ill considered and I was going to stop running. But it was too late. Even slowing down, my momentum brought me close to him as he stood up, still holding the book.

  Immediately, he turned to me and yelled, “Why did you trip me?” Clearly, he had experience in this kind of confrontation.

  “I didn’t trip you,” I said, going on to explain, quite logically, how far away I had been when he fell.

  “Don’t touch me again,” he said as he walked away, clutching the book. There was nothing I could do. We called each other names and went our separate ways. I was shaking as I went back into the store, wondering what the hell I had been thinking. The only positive outcome was that the prick would not come back and try to play me for a fool again. And Rebecca would be impressed. I had taken action when everyone else had stood around and gawped.

  Rebecca and the rest of the staff were waiting for me, as were a few customers who had witnessed the beginning of the chase. Marlene looked concerned. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “He got away.” Despite this, I waited to receive Rebecca’s gratitude for my heroic behavior.

  She nodded, said simply, “That was a stupid thing for you to do.” Then she went back to her office. I was stunned. Here I’d put myself on the line for the store, for the company, for her, and that was the thanks I got. Disappointed does not begin to describe how I felt.

  After the thrill of the book theft, everything settled back to normal. Books sold and new books came in. Surreptitiously, I started ordering books that were not on the prescribed list created by some troglodytes at Head Office. I brought in novels by Tom Sharpe, James Plunkett and Simon Raven, all without asking anyone’s permission. I knew that I would have been told, “No”.

  One day, Rebecca called me to her office. “This list shows twelve books by Tom Sharpe. Who is he and who authorized that?”

  “He’s a British writer. Very rude. Very funny. I thought they’d sell.”

  “They’re not in our warehouse inventory.”

  “No,” I said, “but whoever buys the stock for the inventory has a limited perspective.”

  She paused, then said, “Don’t do that again. Now go and pack up those books. They are being returned.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “I’m telling you as your superviso
r.”

  “I get that,” I said, “but we can’t return them because they all sold. Well, most of them. I believe there are three left.”

  She said nothing until I finally decided that I could leave the office. I could not help but notice that more Tom Sharpe books showed up in one of the next shipments from the warehouse.

  In the basement, the furnace room door slid sideways to open and close, rolling on tracks at the top and bottom. There was no reason to go in there unless some maintenance was required and that never happened in the time that I worked at the store. One day, as I was about to leave the Men’s room, I heard a rumbling that I had not heard before. Although the sound was unfamiliar I knew instinctively that it must be the furnace room door. This was unusual and something told me to stay out of sight.

  I heard nothing else for a minute or two and then Alex’s muffled voice came from upstairs. “Miss Walters, can you come up here please?”

  Equally muffled was her slightly agitated reply, “I’ll be right there.”

  The fireproof door rumbled again and Rebecca’s heels clattered across the floor and up the stairs.

  In her haste, the sliding door had not been closed properly, remaining slightly agape. I shut it for her.

  Through the day, I kept wondering why Rebecca had been in the furnace room. The next day I had the one-to-nine shift.

  Edward was about to lock the back door as we left for the night when I said, “Hang on, man. I forgot my book. It’s in the lunch room.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” he said.

  “Don’t bother. You got a date. Take off, I’ll lock up and see you tomorrow.”

  As Edward crossed the parking lot, I locked the door behind me and went down the basement. The furnace room door slid open with surprising ease given how heavy it looked. Even though I was in the store alone, the way it rumbled made me pause and look around.

  Inside the furnace room, I switched on the light. Instantly, everything became clear. In a corner of the room stood several cardboard boxes full of Christmas merchandise. Dozens of rolls of giftwrap. Hundreds of packages of greeting cards. Merry Christmas from grandma, from grandpa, to my favourite niece, to my wife with love. On and on, with the ludicrously insipid inscriptions that Alex and I used to read aloud to one another, laughing ourselves into the state that Alex described as “Dear Dad Dementia”.

  I understood what had happened. The missing stock had been here all the time. It hadn’t been Mrs. Winters’ mistake. It was Rebecca’s. I touched nothing that evening. All the way home, I wondered how I could help Rebecca.

  It took me a week to realize that there was only one thing to do. The next night, on a day when I wasn’t working, I borrowed my dad’s car and parked in the lot behind the store. I watched everyone leave and lock up for the night. I waited twenty minutes before I let myself in and moved all the giftwrap and cards to the car. Then I drove to a friend’s place. His parents had a two-car garage that was full of junk and that they rarely went into. I’d stored stuff there before so this would be no problem. Kevin and I tucked the boxes in a back corner and piled other old and dusty boxes in front of them. He knew better than to ask.

  Now that Rebecca had nothing more to worry about, I wondered why she had kept the stuff in the store. I’d just proven it was simple to get rid of it. Maybe at first she’d thought she would admit to what had happened, but then put it off and it just got so late that coming forward could only look bad. Or maybe she thought that as long as the stuff was still on the premises it wasn’t really stealing. I studied English in university, not psychology.

  The next day, as Alex and I sat drinking our daily tot of rum, I asked him, “Did you ever wonder what Winters did with all that Christmas stuff?”

  “Not particularly. Why?”

  “I dunno. It just seems odd that they never found it. See, it’s not like it just didn’t get returned. It’s like it vanished. Or she put it somewhere. If it was you, what would you have done with it?”

  Alex laughed. “Me? I would’ve returned it on time and got the credit.” He got up and went to the kitchen sink to rinse his cup. “If you’re gonna steal,” he said, “don’t steal a bunch of moronic greeting cards. It’s a damn stupid thing to lose your job over.”

  That was the key for me.

  I was not about to tell Rebecca that I had discovered her secret. If she went into the furnace room once, she must have done it on several occasions. At some point, she would again. Once she knew that someone was looking out for her, I’d reveal that it was me. Solving her dilemma was just one more way to make myself indispensible.

  I was still going over in my mind what I might get in exchange for my services. A raise? A promotion, not that there was really anywhere to go? I’d even thought about sex. There was no question it was worth something, as a revelation like this to Mr. Jenkins would certainly put a crimp in Rebecca’s career plans. Anyway, I’d solved the problem for her, and sooner or later I’d figure out what that was worth.

  A few days later, I decided it would be helpful if Rebecca found a friendly note. Otherwise, the absence of the goods might prove alarming. On a sheet of store letterhead, I printed “Your secret is safe with me.” As soon as the chance arose, I put the sheet on the floor of the furnace room.

  A week went by. I was getting tense and not a little put out. I wanted this thing resolved. Then, one Tuesday night, I was working one to nine with Rebecca. Edward was in the Children’s Department. There were a couple of customers in the basement and a few on the main floor.

  “I have to go downstairs for a few minutes,” Rebecca said.

  She was gone longer than that. When she came up she walked quickly and she looked upset. There was a piece of paper crumpled in her hand. She said, “I’ll be in the office and I don’t want to be disturbed.” This was good. Things were working out.

  Later, I went to the back of the store and stood quietly by the closed office door. The sound was muffled and soft but I am sure I could hear her crying. It was probably from the relief of realizing that someone, finally, was helping her out of her bind.

  At the end of the shift, Rebecca came out of the office just long enough to tell Edward and me to go home and that she would close up. This was a surprise and another setback. There was nothing I could tell Edward that would make sense so that I could stay behind, and it was important that no one suspect anything about Rebecca’s theft. This was not how I’d imagined things at all.

  I found a spot at the far side of the parking lot where I would not be seen and watched the back door. It was more than an hour before Rebecca came out and walked slowly to her car.

  The next day was Rebecca’s day off so there was nothing I would be able to do until the day after when we were both back at work. For a while I thought I’d look up her home address and go visit her, but decided it was better to wait. This was business, after all, and should be confined to the store.

  When I got to work on Thursday I was in a state of high anticipation. Finally I had decided what to ask for and had rehearsed the conversation repeatedly in front of the mirror. It was a masterpiece of concision and fairness. When Rebecca was late for work, it was frustrating. She was never late. When she did not come in at all that day, I was angry. She had already kept me waiting long enough. I decided that I might need to increase my demands.

  The following day, Rebecca was not due until one o’clock. Shortly after eleven, Marlene came out of the office and spoke briefly with Lillian who looked shocked. Then Marlene summoned all the staff to the information desk. She seemed upset.

  “I have some terrible news,” she said and her eyes were red. “Mr. Jenkins called. Rebecca is dead.” It was the first time I had ever heard Marlene use Rebecca’s given name. It gave me a jolt because that was a privilege I felt was reserved for me. Now it was just another dashed hope. “I don’t know…I can’t tell you anything else,” Marlene continued. “Someone will be coming in from Head Office to look after the store temporarily until
they can find a new manager.” She was having trouble keeping her voice steady and kept pausing to maintain composure. “I’ll be in the office. Just carry on as normal…as normally as possible.”

  “I wonder what happened,” I whispered to Lillian.

  “They think it may have been suicide,” she said and began to weep.

  Jesus. A bunch of stationery wasn’t worth stealing, much less killing yourself over. Well, that was that, anyway. No raise for me. No promotion. No sex. But I still had a chance to get some good out of the Christmas cards. I’d put them back in the furnace room, then tell Jenkins that I just found them. Rebecca would be found out. Her suicide would make sense and I’d come up roses. There’d be a payoff for me yet. Relieved that my problem was solved, I went to find Alex to see if he had any rum.

  Outlet

  FOR A WHILE IN THE LATE 1970S, I WENT OUT with a girl named Lisa who I met when I was working at the cash desk in a bookstore. She was buying a paperback novel and she said to me, “You went to Essex College.”

  This was true, but in the two years since I’d graduated no one had ever mentioned it. “How do you know that?”

  “I recognize you from the pub. You were there a lot.”

  She must have seen me on some of my drunker days, because I did not remember her and, to be honest, she was memorable.

  “Since you know me from the pub, how’d you like to go grab a drink when I get off work?”

  “Okay. Or we could go to my place and have a glass of wine. It’s not far.”

  It was about a ten-minute walk. Lisa rented a room in a large house in an upper middle-class neighbourhood. The house was owned by a bohemian woman named Deirdre who was a longtime friend of Lisa’s mother. The house had been built prior to the First World War, with a large porch and a wide oak staircase. It would have been lovely were it not so rundown, Deirdre never having money for upkeep, let alone renovation.

  When we arrived, Deirdre was sitting with a cup of tea in her crochet-shrouded living room. Lisa introduced us and went to the kitchen for two glasses.